


Out In The Open

by awkwardgturtle



Series: Truman Show 'Verse [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Truman Show AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardgturtle/pseuds/awkwardgturtle
Summary: Pete Wentz is a celebrity and he never knew. Now he's out in the real world and he's slowly finding that everything he knew was a lie.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Kinda self-beta'd because it's taken me over a year to write this and I didn't really hear from my old beta and I sorta tripped and fell into the WoW fandom and I didn't really want to be the one to promise a sequel and then post in the Wrong Fandom so yeah. 100% of mistakes are mine.

_"I love Pete like a son, and I'm devastated by Gabriel's decision to take him from me. Whatever his intention, Pete was always better off with us."_

_"So what becomes of the studio now? Will you try to get Pete back, or make a new show with a different person?"_

_"Even if Pete came back, the show would never be the same. It's too soon to know if I can start over, especially considering the controversy that has arisen over the show recently."_

_"So this may be the end of Wentz Studios?"_

_"It just may be."_

_"Well, we hope not. Now, some people started protesting more vigorously after Patri-"_

Pete turns the channel, feeling vaguely ill. He recognizes the man in the interview as his old sociology professor. He thought nothing of the teacher's fatherly demeanor at the time, but now it seems so obvious. Even things like the travel agency shutting down seem to make sense now. How elaborate was this show that he didn't even notice before?

Not only was there the one show, he found, but there are three separate channels named for him, too. The Wentz Channel, he figures, was used to play the show exclusively up until his escape. The second channel ran interviews and behind-the-scenes footage and the third seems to be all reruns of the notable events of his life.

He leans his head back against the ever-growing pile of pillows behind him. No matter how many he requests from the hospital staff, he still can't seem to get comfortable. Nothing really feels right anymore. He hasn't seen Gabe since he stepped into the ambulance and everyone keeps looking at him like he's the fucking messiah and he just wants to go home. Not that he really knows where that is, exactly. It takes more willpower than he wants to admit not to smother himself in his nest of bedding to escape that reality.

Of course, he tells none of this to the nurse when she comes in to check on his broken ankle, but he does send half of the pillows back with her.

Daytime television proves to be a good enough distraction from these thoughts, especially since there seems to be four times as many channels than he remembers. He settles on a show featuring what he thinks is a prominent celebrity family going about their daily lives. Their problems seem petty and overblown to him, but it’s comforting in an odd sort of way.

The next time the door opens, he's engrossed enough in the show not to notice that the person entering is not his nurse until he notices the glint of a wedding band in their finger. His breath stops when he glances over to find a ghost standing over his bed, shifting foot to foot.

"Patrick," Pete says as all his breath returns at once.

Patrick smiles tentatively. "Hey." He rubs the back of his neck like he always did when he couldn't think of something to say. "How are you feeling?"

Shaking his head, Pete reaches out to him. "Patrick, you're... How?"

The solid, familiar feel of their fingers interlocking floods his chest with equal parts relief and pain. It's so surreal, yet grounding him in reality. "I'm sorry," Patrick says, his voice soft. "I never meant for anything to happen this way. I just wanted you to be free of that place, but..." He looks away. "I guess I wasn't as clever as I thought I was. I got caught."

"But the..." Pete chokes on the memory of heat and smoke. "They told me you were dead."

Patrick's grip tightens around his. "I know," he grits through his teeth. "If I thought they'd do that to you again, I wouldn't have... " His head shakes. "They dragged me off the set for trying to expose them. The fire was a cover-up."

For the first time since this puzzle was presented to him, a few of the the pieces click into place. "Then my dad..."

"He's on his way," Patrick says, his thumb gently soothing the back of Pete's hand. "He's getting on a flight from Chicago tomorrow, so it will take him a while to get here."

Pete feels as if he should be happy at this revelation, but what he feels instead is a sudden rush of anger, accompanied by an intense wave of panic. Before he can think, he lashes out, punching the bedside table hard enough to send a flower vase crashing to the ground. Patrick barely reacts beyond a flinch when the glass shatters over the tile.

"I'm sorry," whispers Pete, pulling his hand from Patrick's grip. "I'm just kinda..."

Patrick rejects the apology with a shake of his head. "You have every right to be upset. Don't apologize for being human."

Pete scrubs his throbbing hand over his face. He’d interrogated the emergency staff on the drive to the hospital about every detail of his life that had been fabricated, only to find that hardly anything he’s ever seen, known or felt was out of the studio’s control. How could it be that even death was fake? Did people even die at all? Despite Patrick's assurance, he's not sure how human he really is.

After a long moment of uncomfortable silence,the door swings open, allowing the doctor he's only seen once when he arrived to stride up to him. “How are we feeling today?” she asks, barely taking her eyes off her clipboard.

Pete shrugs, knowing full well she can't see the movement. She doesn't seem to notice as she looks to Patrick.

“The good news is that the fracture isn’t out of line,” she says, handing his X-ray results to Patrick, “so we can put him in a brace and have him walking right away. We will need to check on his progress every few weeks to make sure he's healing right, but he should be fine.”

He nods, adjusting his glasses slightly as he looks it over. “Great. How does it look out there? I'd like to get him home without having to run over the paparazzi.”

The doctor grins, looking almost proud. “They cleared out pretty fast after we threatened to have them arrested for blocking the path of emergency vehicles. Once you clear the parking lot, I can’t promise anything.”

Patrick hands the X-ray back to her. “That's something, at least. I appreciate the help.”

She waves a hand. “Think nothing of it. It's the least we can do.”

Pete feels a surge of possessiveness when Patrick smiles at her and she smiles back. Why was she looking at him like that? She new that Patrick was his, that they’re married… aren't they?

Doubt settles deep in Pete’s chest as the nurses file in. If everything he’d ever known was a lie from his hometown to his job, why would his marriage be any different? A lump grows in Pete's throat. Did Patrick even love him? He remembers Gabe telling him that everyone he's ever known were hired actors, and now that he's out, something about Patrick feels off. His fists tighten in the sheets. Gabe is the only person that has shown that he truly cares about him, and God knows where he is.

He barely notices they'd finished with his cast until the door closes and Patrick starts shrugging on his coat. “We should go. I have a feeling the reporters are going to start infiltrating the place if we wait much longer.”

“Go where?” He fails to keep his voice from cracking over the words.

Patrick pauses, his coat still hanging off one shoulder. “I… was hoping you’d come home with me.” His expression is caught between surprise and something Pete can't quite put his finger on. Concern? His ability to read his partner has faltered in his doubt.

“I suppose I never asked what you wanted,” Patrick continues slowly. “Where did you want to go?”

Pete curls in on himself slightly. His brain screams that he wants to go home, but his home is gone and his old life demolished. He’d been hopeful when he’d left, but now… he just doesn't know. “Where's Gabe?” The words come out quieter than he intends.

“I'm not sure,” Patrick replies, pulling out his phone and glancing at it. “I haven't heard anything since he handed himself over to the paparazzi. I suspect they won't let him go for a while.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I suppose he'll be looking for somewhere to stay, too.”

“Right…” He’d nearly forgotten that Gabe was in the same position as him. “Maybe… maybe I should wait.”

Patrick opens his mouth, looking ready to agree reluctantly, then frowns suddenly with a determined jaw. “Pete, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Pete replies automatically, but he fails in convincing both himself and Patrick.

Patrick frowns deeper, but his voice is gentle as if he’s worried he'll scare Pete off like a skittish kitten. “You and I both know that’s bullshit.” His hand brushes Pete's arm, filling him with a familiar warmth. “Tell me what you're feeling.”

Patrick's eyes are pleading, pulling the truth from his tongue. “I'm scared,” Pete says quietly. “I want to stay where I know what’s real, but have no idea where that is. I don't know if any of my life is real.” His voice is barely audible when he admits, “I don't know if we're real. If we ever were.”

Those pleading eyes flash with pain before gently closing. “Pete…” he says, and when he opens his eyes, he won't meet Pete’s. “I know you doubt a lot, and I can't blame you when your life's been uprooted like this, but… I never wanted you to doubt us. I never wanted…”

Patrick’s next breath is shaky like he's on the verge of tears. Pete reaches for him, but he looks up with his jaw squared. “Pete,” Patrick says sternly, taking his face into his hands. “I love you. If you want to go with Gabe, then go, but I need you to know that I could never fake that.” Patrick leans in as if he’s going to kiss him, but backs away just short. “I'll see if I can arrange for Gabe to check you out of here,” he says, straightening and starting toward the door. He stops at the doorway as if he wants to say more, then leaves without a word.

 

_____

 

Pete spends his time alone numbing himself to the desolation he feels in Patrick’s wake. He tries to convince himself that he's better off and that he imagined the pain in Patrick's eyes. He kills the idea of Patrick in his mind again. The life he knew was dead, and his husband went with it.

Hours felt like years until Gabe wanders into the hospital, looking harried and just as lost as Pete feels. A strained smile sticks to his face. “Hey, man,” he says, standing by the edge of the bed. “I thought they were going to give me a cavity search just to get in the door.” Pete doesn't try to laugh at the weak attempt to lighten the mood, but Gabe barrels on regardless. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Yeah,”  Pete replies, moving to stand for the first time in nearly two days.

Gabe holds a hand out when he nearly stumbles trying to walk in his boot-like cast, but lets Pete lead the way through the hospital. The nursing staff stare as he goes, the same way they did when they brought him in, and everything feels like it's just a little bit wrong. The hospital he knew was less white and filled with smiling faces, but everyone here seemed so somber and everything smelled strongly of rubber and chemicals. There are some other smells he can't identify mixed in, but he tries not to dwell on them.

By the time he steps outside, he's lost enough in his thoughts to be caught off guard by a gust of air, causing him to nearly jump. Gabe chuckles at his wide-eyes surprise.

“Real weather,” he explains. “Crazy, right? I heard that the wind can get so strong, it can blow branches off trees.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Pete says, narrowing his eyes at the flag flapping loudly in the breeze.

“Man, then you really don't want to hear about tornadoes.”

Pete doesn't pursue the subject, despite not knowing what Gabe’s talking about. If Gabe says he doesn't want to know, he probably doesn't. He's lead to a car with what looks like temporary plates in relative silence. Once he's inside, he pushes the seat back as far as it will go so he can his injured foot out in front of him. Gabe goes the extra mile and leans Pete’s seat down until he’s lying horizontal.

“Unless you want your face all over a hundred news sites, you should probably lay low,” he says, laughing a bit when he thinks of his wording. “Literally, in this case.”

Pete doesn't realize the real concern Gabe put behind those words until he drives them out of the parking lot and is immediately swarmed by bodies, many of them wearing cameras and snapping photos, even when Gabe seems about to run them over. At this rate, Pete feels as if his face will still be all over some news site, just with him lying down. It takes a while before there's some flashing of red and blue lights and the sea of cameramen seems to part, allowing them to pass through without injuring anyone. Once they're free of the crowd, Pete pulls his seat back up.

“What's with them? They know what I look like.”

Gabe sighs deeply, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “They treat celebrities differently here. It's… I don't know why they do it, but they'll never give you any privacy.” Gabe’s jaw is clenched tight, like he wants to jump out of the car and punch every one of them. It's comforting, in a way.

“I didn't really have any anyway,” Pete jokes with a forced smile.

Gabe glances his way and relaxes a touch. “Yeah, I guess not,” he laughs a little bitterly before changing the subject. “So since we don't really have anywhere to stay, I put us up in a hotel for a while. Just until we can sort things out, y’know?”

Pete nods along, staring at buildings as they pass. There are more on this street alone than he remembers being in his hometown. How long is this street anyway? “You probably know what you're doing better than I do.”

Gabe arches an amused eyebrow at Pete. “I really don’t. You were probably better off going with Patrick.”

Pete winces, hiding it by turning his entire body away from Gabe. “Well, I didn't.”

Gabe sighs, but drops the subject, leaving them in silence until they pull into the parking lot of a building much taller than Pete expected. The hotels he knew were two stories tops, but this one was twice as big at least and Pete feels thoroughly dwarfed by the structure. Gabe pulls him inside, either unknowing or uncaring about Pete's hesitance, and leads him to the front desk. A young woman stands behind it, her fingers clacking on a keyboard, paying them no heed for several minutes.

Gabe frowns at her. “We have reservations under the name Jason,” he says, just a little louder than he needs to.

The woman finally looks up, eyes skipping off of Gabe and landing squarely on Pete, widening in a way that makes him want to hide behind his taller friend. “It's you!”

Pete takes a step closer to Gabe. “As far as I know.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but Gabe cuts her off. “I know it's exciting, but we just want a place to stay, and we need you to be discrete.”

“I can do that!” she tells him, nodding hard. She ducks below the counter and thrusts a card key in their direction. “Your room is 316.” She looks back at Pete with a stare on the border of flirty and begging. “Come and see me if you need anything.”

Gabe rolls his eyes and tugs Pete toward the elevator before he can vocalize his confusion. The room assigned to them is nice, in just about the most neutral sense of the word. Inoffensive landscapes are hung over the off-white walls, and the bedsheets are a strange mixed pattern of floral and brushstrokes. It's a little cramped and it has an air as if it was never meant to feel like a home. Pete stands in the entryway, taking it all in as Gabe throws himself onto the bed. The only bed.

“Uh.”

The meaning of the sound is not lost on Gabe. “I wasn't expecting you to stay with me,” he explains, propping himself up on his elbows.

Pete almost asks what he was expecting, but he decides he doesn't want to hear the answer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, fiddling with the ring on his hand as Gabe sits up.

“I don't know about you, but I need a shower,” he says. “Will you be alright for a bit?”

“I'm fine,” Pete replies automatically.

Gabe hesitates doubtfully, but stands anyway, disappearing into the bathroom. Pete stays in place, staring at the dark maroon curtains. He's beginning to feel that void spreading in his chest again, the same one he felt at his mother's house after Patrick… He closes his eyes tight. No, he can't do this again. He yanks his wedding ring off and places it in the bedside table. His hand feels conspicuously bare without it, but he can't bear to look at it any longer.

Getting more and more restless by the second, Pete abruptly stands and paces across the floor. Did he make the right choice? What if Gabe wanted him gone? Where would he go then? He twists the skin of his finger where his ring used to be just this side of painfully. He wants to go home. He wants to go back. He wants… He closes his eyes tightly. He wishes he never found out about all of this.

The shower turns off and Pete stops his nervous strides before Gabe emerges in nothing but a towel. Pete watches him, thinking back to the brief time in high school where they fooled around in Gabe’s room while his mom was still working. It wasn't out of lust or curiosity, really, but a bit of rebellion. His mom had frowned upon homosexuality at the time, but she changed her tune pretty soon after that and the shine came right off. They were never really right for each other in that way, but Pete kind of longs for contact right now, so he sits close to Gabe on the bed, leaning his head on his shoulder.

Gabe puts his arm around him, but says nothing and makes no further moves. They sit in the silence of the room for a long moment, broken only by the rattling of the air conditioner and a siren blaring down the street. It’s not quite the familiarity he's been longing for, but it's close.

Gabe shifts a bit next to him, jostling Pete gently off his shoulder. “They've got no toothbrushes here,” he says conversationally. “Maybe I should have packed before we left.”

Pete snorts. “Sorry, I didn't have the time.”

“Not you, idiot.”

There’s no venom behind it, but everything stings to Pete right now. He stands suddenly, heading toward the door. “I'll check if the front desk has anything.”

Gabe doesn't respond until his hand is on the handle. “Hey!”

Pete glances over his shoulder just in time to see Gabe throwing something at him from the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he catches it with one hand. He recognizes the smooth curves of metal right away without having to open his hand to look. His fist clenches tighter around it, digging his wedding ring into his palm.

“You'll want to put that on,” says Gabe seriously, staring at Pete intensely.

“Yeah,” Pete says, barely loud enough to hear as he slips out the door.

He turns the ring over in his hand a few times, dreading the black hole feeling he’d felt before, but the look Gabe gave him eventually causes him to cave. He slips it back on, but the empty feeling doesn't return. What he does feel is a deep longing mixed with no small amount of doubt and regret. The sound of a hospital door closing softly plagues his thoughts. Was he wrong about Patrick? Something deep in his soul hopes that he was.

When he reaches the lobby, it's mostly empty save for the woman behind the counter smiling excitedly at him and a tall, lanky man sweeping the floors. While the latter ignores him, Pete stops a few feet before he reaches the receptionist, a little afraid of her enthusiasm.

“Toothbrushes?” he asks, but before he finishes, she’s ducking under the counter.

Two plastic bags hit the shiny black granite simultaneously when she pops back up. She’s babbling before Pete has time to process what they even are. “I was watching when you guys left - the show I mean - and I know you guys didn’t have anything with you, so when you went upstairs I put together little overnight bags for you both!” She dumps one out over the counter fast enough that Pete has to hurriedly stop some of the contents from spilling out onto the floor. “Uhh, we’ve got toothbrushes, toothpaste, razors, shaving cream, soap, shampoo and conditioner, lotion...” She sets each aside as she names them, he face getting redder and redder as Pete watches her in stunned silence.

She stops suddenly and starts shoveling the toiletries back into the bag. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’m such a nervous idiot. Just… here!” She shoves the bags out toward him like she’s making an offering to a dragon, one still partially open and almost spilling again.

Pete blinks at he bags before slowly reaching out and taking them and examining one. She was awfully thorough. Everything he could possibly think of needing during his stay here was stuffed into the bag to the point that it’s almost bursting, and there are a handful of other supplies he doesn’t recognize mixed in. “You… made this for us?”

The young woman wrings her hands and nods hard. “I was just worried about you, you know? I didn’t want you to go without essentials, so I just...” She flails her hands a little. “I’m sorry if it was weird. I just… We all really love you.”

That gives Pete pause more than the overflowing bags ever would. “You… all?”

She nods again, shifting on her feet. “Everyone who watched you grow up, I mean. There were protests and lawsuits to get you out of the studio for decades. Everyone just wants you to be… I wanted you to be happy.”

Pete looks to the bags again, suddenly feeling the care and concern put into each of them and clutches it tight. When he looks back at her, he’s smiling faintly. “Thank you. This was really thoughtful.”

She looks ready to burst into tears with relief, then says with a rush, “Can I hug you?”

Pete nods, and she looks about ready to leap over the reception desk to receive it, but she darts around instead, wrapping him in a tight, shaky hug. He returns it gently, closing his eyes. He had no idea people cared about him this much. The idea that so many cared just as much as her… his chest tightens, so he squeezes her harder. When they pull apart, he sees her glance down at his ringed hand with a sad sigh.

She looks up at him, searching. “You still really love him, don’t you?”

Pete’s heart gives a heavy _thump_ in his throat. “Yeah,” he chokes. He wishes it was a lie. It wouldn't hurt so much if it was.

But she smiles at him, if a little sadly. “He loves you a lot, too. I hope you get to see him again after all this.”

“Yeah,” he says again, not mentioning that he already has. Maybe he can believe her, but what if she’s wrong? “Um. Goodnight. And thanks.” He’s not really sure what for.

“Goodnight!” She says cheerily before returning to her post.

He makes his way upstairs with a heart not quite as heavy as before.

 

xxxxxx

 

Getting to sleep in a place that isn’t his home has never been easy for Pete. He’d gotten less than a hour’s sleep at the hospital, and in spite of the layer of exhaustion burrowed under his torrent of emotions, this hotel doesn’t seem like it’s going to be much better. The rattling air conditioner, the twisting of his sheets around his cast, the occasional beats of moving feet in the room above him, all of those things banish the hope of a good sleep from his mind. He closes his eyes anyway.

Late night thoughts have always been his enemy, especially before his mom started making him take pills. Now his thoughts were a hundred times more potent, bringing into question every little thing he’s ever thought or done or seen. Questions pepper his brain like bullets, and none of them have answers. If everyone was an actor, did he ever really know any of his friends? Did anything he ever did as a lawyer even help anyone? Did it mean anything at all? That’s what he wanted after all. He wanted to help people, to follow in his father’s footsteps. But were they even related? How could he know?

Pete barely notices that he’s gripping the sheets with white knuckles until his hand begins to throb with the effort. He releases it with some effort, finally opening his eyes. On the nightstand sits the care package the receptionist gave him, illuminated only by the dim red numbers of the alarm clock. He doesn’t even want to know what they read. He reaches for the bag without thinking and clutches it to his chest, closing his eyes again. This is real. These people are _real_. He repeats as a mantra in his mind, wielding it like a shield against the doubts. It mostly works as he starts to drift in and out of sleep, grounding himself with one hand on the bag and someone's arm lying limply around his waist.

Time is difficult to grasp when he’s floating on the edge of sleep like driftwood in the surf, so he’s not sure when his bed partner pulled himself closer or when their legs tangled together. He knows the feeling, though; the warmth of the body against him, the security of the arm wrapped around him. He tries to lose himself in the feeling, but he begins to panic slowly realizes that something is wrong. He doesn’t recognize the body pressed up against his own. He doesn’t know this. This isn’t right, this isn’t…!

A sharp cry escapes him as he jolts awake, jerking away from Gabe’s embrace and straight onto the floor. The sheets are still tangled awkwardly around his bulky boot, effectively stripping the bed as Gabe, as much of a champion sleeper as he’s always been, simply murmurs something in his sleep and turns over.

As he scrambles to stand, he notices the contents of the bag he'd cuddled to his chest scattered across the carpet. He sighs and begins to gather the pieces, and stuffing them back in. He can't quite get them to fit the way they were before, his haphazard collecting leaving half of the supplies nearly spilling from the bag when he returns it to the nightstand. When he begins to get back to his feet, however, he spots a slip of paper halfway under the table. Recalling seeing it in the bag, he reaches for it, figuring it’s a note or instructions of some kind, but when he unfolds it he finds a beautiful pencil drawing, smudged from friction and contact with some leaking shampoo.  
  
The drawing is of a moment that Pete remembers well. He can almost hear the drone of the TV, feel the warm body at his back as he leans against his husband's chest, tired but content. In the picture, Patrick's hand is in his hair and he's smiling down at Pete fondly. Pete's eyes are closed, but he's smiling too, one hand snuck half under Patrick's shirt. He'd forgotten that he used to be that happy once.  
  
A buzzing from the bedside table startles him out of his staring. Gabe's phone is lit up next to his own neatly packed bag. Pete moves to sit on the bed and reaches for it. Invading Gabe's privacy was almost second-nature to him now, after spending his life sharing everything with him. One glance at the screen makes his chest ache. A text from Patrick waits innocuously from the lock screen. He's punching out _c0bra_ into the password lock without a second thought - Gabe's nothing if not predictable - and brings up his messages.

 

  
The screen goes blurry for a second as he tries to control his trembling hands. His eyes slip closed. Patrick was really... he really wants... He can't hold back the part of him that wishes the same, that craves it. It types out _i need you_ before he can think better of it.  
  
The response is almost immediate. _I'm on my way._  
  
_theres park across the street. dnt wanna wake gabe up._  
  
There's no response, and Pete doesn't need one. Folded drawing in one hand and cardkey in the other, Pete leaves the hotel, grateful that the receptionist seems to have gone home so no one pesters him on his way out. He hobbles across the street between cars and to the small park he'd seen on their way to the hotel. The bench he flops down onto is covered in the beginnings of dew that soaks into his jeans as he curls up on it and tells himself he's not making a mistake. He doesn't believe himself, but he does believe the familiar figure that sits beside him wordlessly some time later.  
  
Neither of them speak for a long time, but Pete does lean into Patrick's shoulder. He's so tired, so tired. Patrick wraps an arm around him and presses a kiss to his head when he shivers, and suddenly the feeling he's been longing for settles in. Home. This is where it was.  
  
"What were you?" Pete murmurs, half hoping Patrick doesn't hear him. The wrong answer would destroy him, but he had to know. "To them, the studio," he clarifies to Patrick's puzzled look. "What were you?"  
  
Patrick laughs shortly. "A thorn in their fucking side is the short answer."  
  
"And the long?"  
  
Patrick knows the importance of his answer. Pete knows he knows, because he's quiet for a long time, gathering the right words in his head. "I joined the show for college. They had a great program and I figured it would get my parents off my ass about the school thing if I applied somewhere. I got accepted, and..." Patrick runs a hand through his hair with a laugh. "And that's it. I was one of hundreds of students at the college and they didn't even train most  of us. I only meant to stay for school and leave."  
  
"And then I met you," says Pete miserably as he remembers their college days, sinking further into Patrick's shoulder. He remembers Patrick's hesitence every time Pete asked for something more, asked to _be_ more. "Every time you said you missed your family... Fuck, Patrick..."  
  
Lips press into his hair again. "I never regretted it," he whispers intensely. "You're my family, too." He lays his ringed hand over Pete's and threads their fingers together, the metal pressing solidly together. "I stayed for me as much as I stayed for you. I love you, and my family understood that."

He had no idea. Every time he’d seen Patrick suffering, crying when he thought Pete wasn’t around, when he looked up at Pete trying to hide the pain in his eyes as he told him his parents couldn’t come to their wedding, he was carrying the weight of all this. He’d fought and lost for Pete, and then, when they were finally together again, Pete had sent him away in a fit of panic. “I thought you were just like everyone else,” he says, barely audible. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” He wasn’t even sure which part he was apologizing for.

“Don’t be.” Arms wind tighter around him. “I still lied to you. I still played a part and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“I forgive you.”

Patrick laughs a little brokenly at that and holds him even tighter. “I tried to do right by you when they kicked me out. I joined the protests, teamed up with your dad in dragging them ass first through court trying to get you out of there. I’m so glad Gabe finally did what I couldn’t.”

Of course he did. Of course Patrick dedicated his newfound life, his _freedom_ to Pete. What did he do to deserve him? Somewhere in the world, there was a kind, gentle and beautiful soul waiting for someone like Patrick to love them, but here he was, giving all of his love to the shattered pieces of what used to be a man. Pete prys out of his arms and kisses him hard, desperate, and Patrick returns it like he’s dying and needs Pete to breathe. It should be the other way around. Pete needs _him_. Tears are streaking down his face before he can stop them, and within seconds Patrick’s hands are there, wiping them away. When the kiss breaks, Patrick’s hands are still on his cheeks, holding his face gently.

“Come home with me,” he says, and Pete nods before he finishes and dives into another kiss.

The taste of his lips is everything he’s been yearning for since… Flames lick at the corner of his memory and he pulls away gasping. It wasn’t real, he tells himself as Patrick pulls them both to their feet. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t _real_ . He shouldn’t be afraid of something that _wasn’t real_.

“Pete?”

Concerned eyes are on him, sensing his distress, so he soothes them with another soft kiss. It cools the fires in his chest. “Take me home,” he says against his husband’s lips.

Patrick pulls away for a moment to tap a message out on his phone that Pete doesn’t have to crane to see clearly. _I have him._

 

xxxxxx

 

The drive to Patrick’s apartment is blurry, but waking up in his husband’s arms the next morning is crystal clear. He can feel every inch of skin on his, every breath against his neck as distinctly as the first time they touched. He remembers being surprised when Patrick had wrapped around him for the first time, pulling Pete’s back to his chest. With women, he was so used to being the big spoon that it never occurred to him that the smaller man would take that role.Then, when his arm laid over his waist and the sense of security burrowed deep into his chest, he let the whole thing go before he could bring it up. He could get used to it.

Carefully as not to wake Patrick, Pete twists around to face him. The sun trickling through the blinds fall over his sleeping lips, cheeks, eyelashes, bare shoulders, striping him in the halo he always deserved. God, he’d missed this. He presses a light kiss to Patrick’s bottom lip, drawing them to part ever so slightly. Shallow breaths flow from them, and then a soft “Pete?”

“Hey.”

Eyelashes flutter open and lips pull into a tired smile. “Hey. You’re up early.”

Pete smiles back. “I’m always up early.”

“True,” Patrick chuckles, reaching over Pete to check his phone on the bedside table. “Your dad comes into LAX in a few hours,” he goes on. He uses his advantageous position to roll Pete onto his back, his sleepy smile flipping to playful in seconds. “We have some time to kill, if you have any ideas.”

Pete’s body has plenty of ideas, or rather, several variations of one idea that involves staying on his back. When he opens his mouth, however, the word “Breakfast?” comes out.

A kiss pecks the corner of his mouth. “You got it.” And Patrick was gone.

Pete sighs in relief and throws an arm over his eyes. After everything, even with Patrick so close, he felt like his reality was as dense as smoke. Something he could see and feel, but when he reached out to grab it, there’s nothing to hold on to. Reaching for Patrick, asking for… that… it felt like trying to grab it by handfuls. He couldn’t handle Patrick disappearing again, not being real. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that it wasn’t rational, that Patrick is a person, solid and genuine, but... He can’t.

The smells of breakfast slowly begin to waft through the open bedroom door, so Pete drags himself out of bed, not bothering with more than his boxers as he sits himself at the small, two-person table tucked into the corner of the tiny kitchen. The rest of the apartment isn’t much bigger, with a living room about the size of the bedroom and a closet-like bathroom tucked to one side. It was half the size of their first apartment together, and a third of the size of his dorm.

“You live here?” Pete asks as Patrick slides a plate of bacon and a slightly botched egg over easy. Patrick’s a small guy, sure, but so is he and he’s already starting to feel claustrophobic.

Much to his relief, Patrick shakes his head. “I bought it as a base of operations while I was here setting court cases and organizing protests against the studio.” His lips quirk like he’s sharing a secret. Something private about himself. “I really live in Chicago.”

Oh. “Where… where are we now?” It’s something that hadn’t occurred to Pete to ask until now. He was told as a child that his “home” was a small town on the coast of Delaware, but he imagines there’s about as much truth to that as everything else in his life.

Patrick seems to follow his line of thought if the line of his frown is anything to go by. “Oh, uh. Los Angeles. I kind of forgot you wouldn’t know. It’s where a lot of the biggest film studios are.”

“Right.” Pete picks at his food. Of course he was on the other side of the continent than he thought. He runs a hand through his hair. “So, uh, what’s Chicago like?” He asks, hoping for a distraction.

The wistful smile that crosses Patrick’s face is not something he expects. “It’s so beautiful, Pete,” he says. “I love it there. The city, the lake, the food, everything. I can’t wait to show you.” His expression falters. “If… if you want to go.”

“We can go.” He doesn’t even think about it. Anywhere Patrick loves is a place where Pete wants to be without question. “When’s the next flight?”

Patrick laughs and bops Pete’s hand with his fork. “Not right now, your dad’s still on his way.”

Right. “How long is he staying?”

Patrick goes back to his meal with a shrug. “We’ve been meaning to switch places for a while. He can do more good here with his law degree than I can just yelling loud enough that Rider is willing to pay to shut me up.”

Rider… “That’s the guy that...” _locked me up, killed you, lied to me, broke everything,_ “owns the studio, right?”

“Something like that.” Patrick’s expression is tight for a second before he smiles again. “The good news is that every day I spent beyond my original contract I spent as an employed actor according to law, so we won’t have to worry about money for a while. Plus we gave him a good kick in the teeth in the process.”

Something tightens in Pete’s chest at the word “we.” The way he said it was as casual as anything, yet there was something binding about it, like he promised Pete forever a second time. He glances down at his wedding ring, suddenly glad Gabe had convinced him to put it back on. He flexes the hand a little.

When he looks back up, Patrick had followed his gaze. “Did… we’re still...” He flounders for the right words. _Did our marriage mean anything?_ isn’t quite what he wants to say, but...

Because it’s Patrick, he knows. His gaze is as steady as it was in the hospital when he assured Pete he was still in love. He means this. “We’re still married,” he assures, “legally binding and everything. It was the first thing I checked.” Lower he adds, “They can’t take you away from me.”

Relief floods Pete’s chest, and he’s resisting the urge to leap across the table to kiss him again when Patrick’s phone chimes.

“We should probably get going soon if we want to beat the traffic,” Patrick says, gathering his plate as he stands.

Pete nods along and follows Patrick’s lead. He’s not quite sure how he feels about seeing his dad again. Nervous, maybe? But even that didn’t feel right. It was different with Patrick, whom he was still mourning and longing for when they finally met again, but it’s been decades since Pete’s seen his dad last. Acceptance had already set in and he’d let go of the idea that he might come back. What was he supposed to do with that? He starts pacing as Patrick puts away their dishes, unable to help himself.

Before long, a hand brushes his shoulder. Not a comfort or a demand to snap out of it, but a reminder. _I’m here. I’m with you._ It gives him the ability to swallow his anxiety if only for a moment. He smiles at Patrick, his husband, his center. “Let’s go.”

 

xxxxxxxx

 

LAX is beyond anything Pete had imagined. It felt bigger than his hometown, bustling wall to wall with people, over half of which stop to look at him clinging to Patrick’s arm like a child. Every phone points in his direction, and Pete shrinks under the attention. When he was with his friends, being the center of attention always used to be something he sought, but now it suffocated him. All he wanted was to sink into the floor, but Patrick grounds him, wading through the crowd with unerring confidence. Eyes straight forward, shoulders squared, face blank, strides long like he’s done this a thousand times. It’s not a Patrick Pete knows, but it’s one he needs right now.

They stop by a row of contraptions Pete’s only seen in movies, a handful of them carrying baggage lazily along their metal belts. As soon as they stop, a crowd begins to gather around them, most keeping a fair distance away as a handful of security guards begin to corral them. Pete hears his name muttered in the crowd from every direction, a couple more enthusiastic people shouting it along with “I love you!” over the noise as flashes pop all around them. Patrick hand tightens on his. It’s the first reaction to all of this he’s gotten from Patrick, and it’s more than a little comforting. He finally remembers to breathe and leans heavily against his husband, who kisses his temple. A hundred more clicks and flashes.

“He’ll be here soon.” It’s a platitude that Pete appreciates right about now.

Sure enough, the crowd begins to part as cameras flash frantically at the figure pushing its way toward the front. When the last of them stand aside, Pete barely recognizes the man standing there. His hair is now white with age, and the worry lines tracing his mouth and brow are etched even deeper than he remembers. Patrick’s arms disappear from around him, giving him some room to move, but he can’t. “Dad.”

His father didn’t seem to have this problem as he closes the distance between them in seconds and wraps his arms around Pete. Pete closes his eyes against the hundreds of cameras scrambling capturing that second. “Pete,” his dad says into his shoulder. “I missed you so much. 

When his arms finally work, Pete returns the hug gently. “I… I missed you too.” The words choke him like he’s forcing out beach balls instead of air. “Dad, I...”

But his dad was already speaking, pulling him tighter. “I’m so proud of you, I always have been. I’m so happy that you’re free of that place. I’m so glad...”

Memories assault Pete at the words, memories of all the time he’d spent with his father by his side, as well as all the times he wished his dad could see, never knowing he was watching the whole time. Especially vivid was the first time Patrick met his mother. He could remember his mom’s smile as Patrick talked, gesturing enthusiastically. He could remember the love he felt and the longing at the empty spot across from him. Then the wedding, looking out over his friends and family with a warm, solid hand in his. If only his father could see. If only…

That warm, solid hand presses against his back, alerting him to the fact that he’d been crying into his father’s neck, but the wetness against his shoulder told him he wasn’t alone. He pulls away, back into Patrick’s waiting arms as the baggage claim starts to shudder and move, spewing baggage onto the rotating platform. He sympathizes for the other passengers skirting the huge crowd they’ve drawn in search of their luggage.

Airport security does wonders for them as they make their way back to the car faster than they had when they were fighting the crowd. Now the crowd was trailing behind them with phones and cameras and shouted questions that he tries to tune out, especially after the first mentions of “Rider” and “fire.” Patrick’s twice as rigid as before, looking for all the world like he was resisting the urge to turn around and punch one or all of them. They make it to the car without incident, however, and Patrick peels out of airport parking like he’s trying to outrun a bomb. Not one ounce of tension has left his body and his thumbs tap on the steering wheel in agitation.

 _Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap._ Pete glances at his dad in the rearview mirror. “Uh. How was the flight?” he resists the urge to ask _What was it like?_

“Long and uneventful,” he says, and Pete tries not to be disappointed. “Most of them tend to be, once you get used to them.”

“Oh.” _Tap, tap-tap, tap, tap._ “We were thinking about maybe heading to Chicago soon. When you’re settled in and everything, I mean.”

His dad nods. “That’s a good idea. The press will hassle you less there, so you’ll have some time to settle down.” His eye move to Patrick at the last words. _Tap-tap, tap, tap, tap-tap._

The steady pattern of Patrick’s thumbs drown out every other thought, including any reply he might have had for his dad. _Tap, tap, tap-tap._ He turns toward the window as anxiety he’s been suppressing bubbles up in his chest, hoping the passing scenery will calm it, but... _Tap-tap, tap, tap._

Something inside him winds up and lashes out, and suddenly he has one hand tight on Patrick’s wrist, the car swerving slightly at the sudden move. “Can you fucking stop?” Pete snaps, his voice a little more manic than he means it to be. “I’m trying not to freak the fuck out right now and you’re _really_ not helping.”

Patrick’s jaw is clenched tight, and Pete worries for a moment he might be gearing up for a fight right here and now, in front of his dad of all people, but the expression melts slowly into something more contrite. “Sorry, I...” He takes a deep breath and shakes the tension out of his arms. “I didn’t mean to freak you out. I shouldn’t let those tabloid paps get to me, but man.” He shakes his head slightly. “I’m used to them throwing insults at me to try to wind me up, but when it’s you… It’s different when it’s you.”

Slowly Pete releases Patrick’s wrist. “They really do that? That often?” So often that Patrick had to numb himself to it. The thought feels like it should make Pete angry, but sadness fills him instead, like he’s watching children throw stones at a dove. What did Patrick do to deserve such treatment?

Patrick shrugs. “They just want a reaction. Anything to sell more magazines or get more hits on their websites. It doesn’t really matter if they hurt someone in the process.”

Pete turns away again, hands shoved into his pockets. Is that really how people are out here? Were there no smiling faces and helping neighbors like the people he’d known before? Before those thoughts can suffocate him, his thumb brushes against the folded drawing tucked into the bottom of this pocket. The memory of the nervous admiration from one young woman stands up against his doubt. “They can’t all be bad,” he says softly.

“I guess they’re not,” Patrick admits as the car starts to slow to a reasonable speed. He smiles apologetically over at Pete, then at his dad in the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry for getting so worked up.”

“It’s alright,” his dad replies. “We’re all under a lot of stress.”

It’s an understatement, but Pete just nods stiffly and turns back toward the window.

 

xxxxxx

 

Patrick plans their trip to Chicago a week down the road to allow Pete’s dad to settle into LA while allowing him to spend some quality time with his son. As the week goes on, however, despite multiple dinners and game nights and trips downtown, it became increasingly obvious that the two had nothing to say. It wasn’t for lack of trying - Pete missed his father something fierce and wanted to spend time together - but after decades apart, he couldn’t help but feel like they were more strangers than family.

It’s a relief when the day of the flight finally comes, though returning to LAX isn’t exactly on the top of Pete’s list of things he wants to do. Patrick does most of the packing and all of the planning, moving them through the sprawling airport at a hurried pace in the wee hours of the morning to avoid the less dedicated paparazzi. They still run into a handful at the entrance, but past security there is only the scattered person watching them hold hands loosely as they head through the terminal.

Being with Patrick has become closer to what it had been before in the previous week. It was easy to fall back into a weak imitation of their old routine; shower, clothes, teeth, breakfast, then whatever activity Pete had with his dad to replace his job, then back home to Patrick so he can be shown all of the movies he was never allowed to see before, dinner, bed, rinse and repeat. Even with that cycle back in place, Patrick still felt just slightly off center to him, like he had in the hospital.

It bothered him for a few days until he sat on the couch one night, listening as Patrick shuffled around the kitchen as he made popcorn for their movie, singing to himself as he worked. The song was a little louder, a little clearer, and when Pete peeked over the back of the couch and spotted hips swinging and feet moving to the tune, it finally hit him. The change wasn’t him seeing a different Patrick than the one he knew, it was him seeing _more_ of Patrick. More confident, less inhibited, pure. Nothing hidden from cameras that he couldn’t see. He didn’t think it was possible to love this Patrick more than he already had. It was like his husband had uncovered more of his heart to own.

Pete’s fingers tighten around Patrick’s hand as they reach their gate, revelling in the soft smile he gets in return before the hand is tugged away in favor of reaching for his laptop. Leaning against Patrick’s shoulder is a good excuse to snoop at whatever Patrick is working on, especially since he’s been less diligent about shrugging him off than he used to be now that Pete craves more contact than he ever has. It comes as no surprise to see Garageband pulled up among a handful of other windows he switches between, one looking a lot like a draft of lyrics. Patrick half-heartedly protests when Pete hijacks an earbud, but does nothing about it as he continues his work.

What he has so far is only the bones of a song. There’s a drumline and a melody and not much more, but Pete can still feel where the song is going. It sounds like coming home, almost bittersweet but familiar. It was something Patrick started working on a couple days ago. He’d said that ever since his ass hit the pavement outside Wentz Studios, he’d been too busy to write, then mumbled something about lost inspiration a moment after. Now he was talking about an album, and bandying the words “label” and “tour” about.

But today, Patrick mostly just picks at the lyrics as they wait. Words always came harder to Patrick than music, so he hums in appreciation whenever Pete mumbles a suggestion, often rearranging what he’d already written to fit it in. By the time they’re called to board, the words are almost nothing like they were when they started.

They have large lounge-like seats near the front of the plane which Pete doesn't fully appreciate until he catches a glimpse futher back of hundreds of chairs crammed together. He almost feels guilty watching the majority of passengers pass by them, but they all seem overjoyed just to see him on the plane with them, so he smiles at each of them, even waving at the children. Patrick watches him fondly from his seat by the window until everyone is seated, then switches to allow Pete to stare out the window like an over-exuberant puppy.

“This is amazing,” Pete says breathlessly when they're in the air, cruising somewhere over Utah. “Do people really get to do this whenever they want?”

“Some people do it every day,” Patrick replies over his book. “Usually for work.”

“Like if you went on tour?” his eyes shine with interest, but Patrick just looks guilty.

“I'd probably have a tour bus,” he says as he closes his book softly, “but if I go overseas I might.”

Pete frowns at the look. “Is something wrong?”

Patrick sighs, but puts on a smile for Pete. “No, it's fine. I just… I probably won't go on tour.”

“No?” Pete wasn't expecting that. “Why not?” he demands. “They have to take you on tour. Your album is going to be amazing!”

“It's not that,” Patrick assures, “it's just… whether the album is a success or not, I don't want to leave you alone for that long.”

 _Of course_ Patrick's thinking of Pete before his own happiness. “You're going.” Pete folds his arms stubbornly before Patrick can protest. “Music is your life, babe. Don’t stay behind for my sake.”

Patrick steels his gaze, more than prepared to out-stubborn Pete. “It's not just going to be a couple days, Pete. I'll be gone for months. If something happened while I was gone, I'd never forgive myself.”

“Then I'll go with you.”

“Pete…”

“Why not?” Pete’s voice is a touch too loud for an airplane if the looks he’s drawing are any indication, but he's not above making a scene. “Tell me why I can't go along. Fuck, Patrick, you can't just drop everything for me. You're allowed to be happy, too.”

“Can you quiet down?” Patrick hisses, squeezing Pete’s arm just this side to too hard. “Christ, I just don’t want to uproot our life when we haven’t even settled down yet.” The grip around his arm relaxes and takes his hand gently. “Don’t assume I’m not happy building a life with you.”

Not wanting to be defeated so easily, Pete pouts the best he can in spite of the comfort and warmth he feels from Patrick’s assurances. Patrick sighs and presses a gentle kiss to Pete’s cheek.

“If I ever go on tour, I’ll bring you with me, okay?”

“And our dog?”

“We don’t have a...” Patrick’s eyes narrow. “No.”

Pete’s lip sticks out comically. “Please, baby,” he whines obnoxiously, pressing his forehead hard into Patrick’s shoulder. “I’ll be so lonely stuck at home while you’re out in the world being generally perfect.”

“You’re a menace,” Patrick says in a way that means _I’ll think about it_.

Grinning with all his teeth, Pete unbuckles his seat belt and sprawls over his husband's lap, ignoring all protests. “You love me.”

A softness Pete doesn’t expect fills Patrick’s eyes. “I really do,” he says, adding “asshole” as an afterthought.

The look lasts all of a second until Pete’s hands creep underneath the hem of Patrick’s shirt and he’s nearly shoved onto the floor of the cabin.

 

xxxxxx

 

Pete wasn’t sure what he was expecting Patrick’s house to look like. Kind of like their old one, he’d assumed, plain and suburban with a picket fence, maybe a garden that was half wilted from his lack of desire to tend to it. What he wasn’t expecting was the sprawling house they pull up to at the end of a driveway longer than the street he grew up on. Such opulence seems unlike him, especially when he’d been so vocal about how excessive a third bedroom would be in their old home.

His stunned silence lasts past the doorway as he wanders the first floor, finally ending in a large living room with shiny wooden floors featuring a grand piano in front of a huge picture window with an actual crystal chandelier hanging above it. “ _Really_?”

Following Pete’s gaze to the grand piano, Patrick crosses his arms defensively. “What? You know I’ve always wanted one.”

“It’s not the piano,” Pete says, splaying his arms wide. “Patrick, this whole house. What the _fuck_.” He laughs, dropping into a low, mocking tone. “Pete, this house is too much! What are we going to use three bedrooms for?”

“Oh, fuck off.” A playful swat impacts Pete’s shoulder, but when he turns, Patrick looks genuinely perturbed.

Pete drops his smile right away at the look. “Hey, Patrick, it’s fine. This place is amazing. I’m just poking fun.”

A hand runs through Patrick’s hair. “I know,” he says unconvincingly. He takes a deep breath and hitches on a smile. “I know it’s not a house I’d normally buy, but I’m not without my vices.” Before Pete can ask, Patrick’s arms wind around him, pulling him back into his chest. “I grew up in this town, you know. We drove past this house all the time, and every time, I’d tell my mom that one day I’d be so famous that I’d live here.”

Pete nods in understanding. He remembers dreaming of adventure as a child, and what he would have given to follow that dream. He can’t fault Patrick for the same. The curve of a smile presses into his neck. “You know,” Patrick purrs, “I watched you a lot growing up, too. When I was in high school, I’d run home just to see you on TV and not just because it was the only show I watched that my parents approved of. I wanted this.” His thumbs hook into the waistline of Pete’s jeans and Pete can’t stop the way his body riles under the touch. “I wanted you.”

Suddenly he’s being turned around and pressed into the wall as his husband smiles over him. “And now here I am in the house of my dreams with the only person I ever wanted to share it with.” The kiss that comes is gentler than he expects, but it still sends sparks skipping up his spine. “You’ve given me everything I’ve ever dreamed of.”

After five years together, it’s only natural that Patrick would know his every hot button and how to press them. He could have Pete writhing with want in moments if he so desired, but instead he presses his lips to Pete’s neck tentatively, asking. And Pete wants. He wants so badly to touch his husband like he hasn’t in what feels like ages, but… He chokes on his next breath and shakes his head slightly, wrapping his arms around Patrick. Patrick sighs gently against his skin and that’s that.

They stay like that for a long moment before Patrick pulls away. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

Every room Patrick shows hims is just as amazing as the next as the house goes on for what seems like forever. He pulls him through no less than four bedrooms, a massive office, a lavish dining room and into a huge kitchen. There are two more living rooms that Pete can count; one is in the basement sporting a huge television with surround sound and a plush leather couch that Pete can already see them watching Star Wars a hundred times in a row on and the other is on the other end of the house from the first, decorated a little sparsely save for a massive fish tank against one wall with a large goldfish darting around inside.

“Godwin!” Pete cries, rushing to press his face against the glass. “You kept him! I thought we lost him forever!”

Patrick laughs from the doorway, the shake of his head just visible in the tank’s reflection. “I had to drive that damned fish all the way from LA to keep him alive.”

“I’m so glad you made it, little buddy,” Pete coos to the tank, spooking the fish behind a castle decoration. “And soon you’ll have a little puppy brother to play with.” Pete catches the tail end of Patrick’s eyeroll when he turns around. “So are we going to have dinner, or do they not have any food in this city?”

“We can order in,” Patrick says as they wander back into the kitchen, “and this city has the best food you’ve ever had. You just wait.”

Pete fixes him with a doubtful look. “Better than pizza?”

The smirk on Patrick’s lips is the only answer he needs.

 

xxxxxx

 

“This makes so much sense,” Pete says reverently. “This is heaven. You’re a fucking angel and you live in heaven.”

Patrick snorts indelicately like Pete’s not having a religious experience with every bite he takes. “It’s Chicago style pizza, man. I couldn’t believe they never let you have it in your little bubble.”

“It’s _heaven_ ,” Pete insists, “and Lou Malnati is _god._ ”

If his mouth weren’t stuffed full, Pete would tell Patrick he doesn’t appreciate his snickering. “I’m guessing I should tell you about Chicago style hot dogs, then.”

“Heaven,” Pete moans around his pizza.

Patrick’s amused smirk fades as he watches Pete eat. The look of vague dread is familiar enough for Pete to pause his eating to frown at his husband. “What’s wrong?”

A hand runs through Patrick’s hair. He seems to do that a lot now that he’s wearing fewer hats and worrying a lot more. “Nothing big,” he says, trying to pass off as nonchalant and not really succeeding. “I just keep getting calls from a hundred different news networks begging for a hundred different interviews. It’s getting a bit overwhelming.”

“Go knock out some interviews, babe,” Pete says, smiling in reassurance. “You’ll do great, I know it.”

“I don’t care about me,” Patrick says grimly. “They don’t care about me. They’ve all talked to me when I was kicked out. They all want to interview you. I just didn’t want to set something up if you aren’t comfortable with it.”

The sense of dread he sees in Patrick’s eyes settles in Pete’s chest. He’s not really sure if he’s ready to talk about… it. That. Then.

“Look,” continues Patrick when Pete doesn’t reply, “I know one of them from the show. She conducted all of the interviews with the cast, and I trust her.”

Pete pokes at his pizza, suddenly not very hungry. “Do I have to?” God, he sounds like a child.

“No,” Patrick says, his eyes turning soft as he takes Pete’s hand. “I’m not going to make you talk to anyone before you’re ready.”

Pete takes a breath and lets it out slowly. He’s not ready, not really, but the way Patrick flinches when his phone vibrates makes up his mind for him. “Call her. I’ll do it.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Are you sure?” Pete nods before he can finish. “Alright. I’ll set something up for this week.”

The dread in Pete’s stomach materializes into a vague nausea, so he closes the pizza box in front of him and wanders up to the bedroom. He counts it as a victory when he only gets lost once along the way, and as another when Patrick joins him shortly after, lying in a tangle of limbs above the sheets.

 

xxxxxx

 

Pete's leg is bouncing anxiously from where he’s seated just off set of an older woman - Brenda, Patrick calls her - introducing her show. It's a step down from the all-out pacing he was doing before Patrick stopped him, but it helps a little. It’s too late to turn back now, he knows, though Patrick keeps trying to assure him otherwise. He needs to do this. He's ready.

He squeezes Patrick's hand with an assuring smile to turn away the concerned looks he keeps throwing when a cameraman indicates thirty seconds. They stand and enter when prompted, hands still tangled together as the studio audience screams for them. The staring they get in public is enough to make him never want to leave his house, but the screaming he could barely handle. He didn't understand. He was just him. They sit, and Pete didn't realize how hard he was gripping Patrick's hand until Patrick pulls gently at the tight grip. It's harder than he can admit to loosen his hold.

“So,” the older woman says loudly when the cheers show no sign of fading, straightening the cards in her hands. She has to hold up a hand for several moments before it’s quiet enough to speak over. “So. It's been a wild couple weeks for you two, now that Wentz Studios has been shut down. What have you two been up to since your reunion?”

She looks to Pete, and Pete looks to Patrick, who seems more than happy to answer for him. “Mostly trying to help Pete adjust to life on the outside. We spent some time with his dad and now we're trying to settle down here in Chicago before we make any big plans.”

Brenda never takes her eyes off Pete. “Yes, I saw pictures of you and your father at the airport. How did it feel to see him again?”

Pete swallows, but his throat is sticky and dry. “Uh. It was a little surreal,” he admits, reaching for the water on the table beside him. “I kind of accepted that he was gone forever, but then he was right there.”

“Was it the same for Patrick?”

“That one… was still pretty fresh.” He takes a long drink to avoid admitting the pain and the denial.

“I heard that you left the hospital with Gabe, even though Patrick was there.”

Pete takes deep, gulping swallows. “We had to leave separately to avoid the paparazzi following us,” Patrick lies smoothly. It sounds too calm and familiar, like when he brushed off the eclipse so long ago. “Pete and Gabe were the top story, not me.”

She casts a sidelong look at Patrick, like she knows that voice just as well, but she doesn't challenge him. Intent eyes slide back to Pete. “There were a lot of protests surrounding the show, calling it inhumane and saying you would be happier in the real world, but Rider always said that the real world was too imperfect and that you were better off with him. So to settle and old argument,” her lips quirk up like she knows the answer, “how do you feel now that you're free?”

Patrick looks to him, ready to take over the answer if Pete wouldn't, but he had to tell the truth. “I feel awful, honestly. I'm in this world I know almost nothing about, everyone looks at me everywhere I go, I see my face on cereal boxes and magazines, I can hardly tell what's real anymore and to be honest, sometimes I wish I never left.” The studio goes quiet for several long beats, but Pete can feel Patrick's hand hot in his. “But my husband is here, and my family. I get to see Chicago and soon maybe the rest of the world.” He glances over toward Patrick's surprised stare, slowly melting toward adoring. “I don't think I'd rather be anywhere else right now.”

The audience coos when Patrick lifts their hands and kisses Pete's fingers. “I feel the same. I'm so grateful that I can share this with you.”

Brenda smiles gently and moves onto the next question, which Pete tunes out as he watches Patrick answer with practiced ease. It's still strange to think that Patrick was so used to this celebrity treatment because of him. He feels like he’s watching him on a TV screen, even though he's right there, because the Patrick he knows so candidly from college to his home to between his sheets is worlds away from this. It makes him a little ill to watch him like this. He wants to go home, wants to open this Patrick up and check for wires instead of flesh. He's so disoriented that he's not nearly prepared for Brenda’s next words.

“There has been talk amongst Wentz Studios of adopting another child for the next generation of--”

“They can't,” Pete blurts. His hand squeezes painfully. He needs to feel grounded. There couldn't be another like him. How could they do that to a child, to put them through what he's going through? “They can't, they can't. You can't let them. They can't…” He needs to breathe. He can't...

Arms wind around him, pulling him toward Patrick. “Breathe.” The action comes easier when he says it. The voice of the Patrick he knows surfaces, hard and stubborn. “They really don't see what they’ve done this time? There will never be another Wentz Show, whether they want it or not. And if they try, I will fight them every step of the way. No one deserves what they did to him.”

Patrick pulls him up as Brenda tries futilely to salvage the scene, hurriedly sending it off to a commercial break as Pete stumbles from the building, still clutched close to Patrick's chest.

“You can't let them,” Pete says pathetically as Patrick deposits him into the car. “You can't.”

Lips press to his and he whimpers into them. “I won't,” Patrick promises. “I mean it. There will never be another you. I promise.”

Despite the assurance, Pete can't calm himself enough to believe it.

 

xxxxxxx

 

Pete's panic attack is _everywhere_. He couldn't turn around without seeing another news outlet screaming it from the rooftops. “Wentz Breaks Down” they say, all with the same photo of him tucked under Patrick's arm like a frightened cub. They call Patrick's heated reply an “outburst” or “explosion” and show his face twisted to a scowl that Pete was too dazed to see. Nausea washes over him, knowing that this is how they were going to paint them if they followed through on their threat to fight this. Volatile Patrick and Crazy Pete.

He pushes the laptop to the other side of the table. “Maybe we shouldn't have gone,” he says quietly.

He can feel Patrick's leg shaking in agitation under the table and his fist is clenched to prevent the drumming of his fingers. “I wouldn't have asked if I’d known she’d…” he grits out, but sighs to calm himself. “She's just like the rest of them. I don't know why I thought she wouldn't be.”

There are circles under Patrick's eyes from staying up long past midnight comforting a shaking and sobbing Pete. He was such a wreck, and here he was dragging Patrick down with him like he always did. “It's not your fault.”

Patrick barely acknowledges the platitude, and his fidgeting doesn't let up. “Your dad and his colleagues are already preparing a case against Rider in case it's more than just a rumor.”

“I can help,” Pete replies automatically, though the idea of going back to work so soon - on his own case, no less - makes his stomach drop.

Patrick's shaking his head anyway. “He doesn't want you tangled up in it. They'll get it done.” His phone buzzes at his side, and he glances at it before standing. “Come on, we're going somewhere.”

Pete frowns. “Where?”

Patrick only smiles.

 

xxxxxx

 

One of the biggest downsides of a half decade of marriage was that Pete’s nagging, harassing, begging, and puppy eyes are glancing off Patrick’s shoulder as he drives them through suburbia.

“Seriously, where are we going?” Pete asks for the hundredth time, but it’s only answered by Patrick’s persistent smirk. “I’m going to jump out of this car if you don’t tell me.”

“Child lock,” is the only reply he gets.

So unfair.

“If you loved me, you’d tell me where we’re going,” he says, looking through his eyelashes.

“If you loved me, you would have shut the fuck up ten minutes ago.”

Pete slouches in his seat, a difficult feat with his seat belt securely strapped across his waist. With everything that's happened lately with the media, the idea of going to a secret location didn't sit well with him.

To his surprise, they park not in front of a studio or a store, but in front of a small house with a kept lawn. Before he could ask where they were, Patrick is stepping out of the car and an older woman comes running outside crying his name. Pete steps out of the car after him, eyes flicking from the woman to Patrick anxiously.

“Patrick,” she says into his shoulder, “I missed you, sweetie.”

Patrick chuckles lightly. “I’ve only been gone a couple weeks.”

The woman pulls back and smacks his shoulder. “I can still miss you. You were only home for a couple weeks to begin with.” She turns to Pete and grins so hard her eyes squint at the force of it. “Oh, it’s so great to finally meet you!”

Pete’s enveloped in a forceful hug before he has a chance to react, staring wide-eyed over the woman’s shoulder at Patrick, who looks far too amused.

“Pete, meet my mom.”

His _mom?_ A mixture of renewed nervousness and joy fills Pete. He finally gets to meet Patrick’s family after all these years! His heart feels ready to burst.

The woman is pulling back, waving her hands. “No, no, call me Patricia, dear. None of that mom or Mrs. business.”

Pete grins uncontrollably as they’re led inside where the rest of Patrick’s family - his dad, a sister and a brother, Pete notes - is setting a long dinner table filled with a spread of some of Pete’s favorite foods, with a handful of Patrick’s favorites in the mix. Warmth fills him as they sit and he slings a foot around Patrick’s ankle next to him, drawing a fond smile. This is his family. _Their_ family.

After they’re finished, Pete can’t help the smile that crosses his face as he looks around the table. “I’m glad I get to finally meet you all. It’s nice to know he wasn't just trying to hide you guys from me.”

 

Patricia waves her hand at him again as she dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, you wouldn’t have wanted me at your wedding anyway,” she says dismissively, but there is still a mournful edge in her voice. “I was such a wreck. We probably went through six boxes of tissues.”

“I would have loved to have you, crying or not,” Pete says seriously. “You’re as much my family as you are his. You should have been there.”

“Maybe they can be.”

Pete turns to Patrick in confusion, meeting his adoring gaze for a split second before his eyes dance away. “Patrick?”

Setting his jaw, Patrick looks up again. “Five years is a long time,” he says, trying too hard to be confident for any confidence to be in his voice. “I was thinking we could… do it again. Renew our vows or something.”

A gasp rings out from one of his family members who look on eagerly. He knows he must be beaming from the way his cheeks ache. “Patrick,” asks Pete slowly, “Are you asking me to marry you again?”

Patrick can barely finish nodding before Pete leaps into his lap, smothering him in a kiss. When he pulls back, he barely processes the reactions of Patrick’s family, his whole world narrowed down to just them. “Do you really need me to answer?”

The worry on Patrick’s face is all but gone as he matches Pete’s smile as his cheeks flush under the attention. “I’d like to hear it.”

“My answer is yes,” Pete says, using a deep kiss to punctuate his answer. When he pulls back he adds, “and I’d marry you every day if I could.”

“That sounds expensive,” Patrick’s brother chimes in from across the table.

Pete turns to sit in Patrick’s lap and nuzzles their cheeks to one another in jest. “That just means you can’t afford my love.”

Thee mood breaks just like that and soon they all move to the living room, chatting and catching up on all of the time they never got to spend together. Before they know it, night creeps up on them and Patricia is insisting that they stay the night despite Patrick’s protest of _I don’t live that far_ and _We’ll be fine, mom_.

It turns out Momma Stump is twice as stubborn as her son because they wind up in Patrick’s old room, surrounded by a mess of records and Bowie posters. An old guitar leans against one wall, similar to the one Patrick had in their old home hidden away in that third bedroom. Everything just screamed _Patrick_ here, right down to the Star Wars pajama pants in a pile to one side. When Patrick pulls him toward the bed, Pete goes without hesitation.

“This was nice,” Pete murmurs into Patrick’s neck as they sprawl across the bed, barely enough room for them both. “I’m so happy I finally got to see your family.”

“So am I,” Patrick agrees, the vibrations of his voice against Pete’s lips as he kisses his throat. “I wanted them to meet you so bad. I knew they’d love you, and I knew they’d understand why I stayed.”

Pete hums as he unbuttons Patrick’s shirt just enough to press a kiss over Patrick’s collarbone. The soft skin and solid bone and choked noise above him are more real than anything he’s felt since the feeling of home. He knows now. This isn’t leaving. His fingers work at the buttons further down as Patrick huffs out a breath.

“You have the worst timing,” he says.

Pete doesn’t have to meet his eyes to know they’re narrowed with irritation and nearly black with arousal. He knows exactly what he’s doing to his husband as he bites gently at the spot. There’s little resistance when he pushes the shirt over Patrick’s shoulders and he hears it flutter to the floor when they toss it aside.

“You’ve got lube in here, right?” Pete asks as he reaches for Patrick’s zipper.

“My _mom_ is next door,” Patrick hisses as his boxers are shimmied down his hips, betrayed by his slowly growing erection.

Pete leans up to peck Patrick’s lips condescendingly. “Then be quiet.”

There’s another glare, but Patrick rolls over to reach into the nightstand, pointedly ignoring Pete’s hips wiggling in victory. “You’re an asshole,” he declares, handing the lube over.

Pete arches an eyebrow at the sealed bottle, then at Patrick, whose expression tells him saying anything about it would rule out any chance of going further, so he just smiles and breaks the seal. He feels like he should be put off by the Prince poster peering over the headboard, but Patrick’s leaned back against the pillows, pale skin fading into a blush all the way down to his shoulders. Everything about this picture is perfect to him, even as Patrick groans at the first press of Pete’s fingers.

“You should probably be quieter,” Pete says, going for matter-of-factly, but he can’t keep the low tones of desire from his voice. “Your mom is next door.”

Patrick makes an aborted noise of frustration. “Ugh, you’re so...” He cuts himself off by biting his own knuckles as Pete twists his fingers inside him, cutting off a whimper.

Pete considers goading him on, but is distracted by the insistent rolling of hips as his husband grinds down onto his hand. He can’t believe he’d forgotten how beautiful this moment is. Distantly, he hears muffled versions of the noises he knew well, using them to gauge when he’s ready and keeps it up a moment longer to draw out the ones that are both demanding and desperate.

“Missed this,” he whispers into Patrick’s thigh before nipping and licking his way up to his torso as he prepares himself lazily. “Missed you so much.”

“Fucking show me,” Patrick demands breathlessly. “Fucking fuck me already.”

Pete clasps a hand over Patrick’s mouth with a grin. “Shhh.”

The red in his face deepens with more anger than lust, but any reaction is cut short when Pete presses in slowly, reduced to a choked-off noise under his fingers. Sweat is already forming on Patrick’s brow when Pete slides home, and his glaring eyes slide closed as he meets Pete’s next thrust.

From there, it’s just muscle memory, his fingers fitting to Patrick’s hips like they belong there. Patrick replaces the hand over his mouth with his own again as Pete moves, choking down every other moan. The effort is almost comical as the rhythmic thumping of the headboard against the wall does less to hide their activities than Patrick’s failing efforts to keep quiet. At some point he seems to forget he’s supposed to and lets every groan and grunt pass his fingers, still splayed over his lips in a vague mimicry of what they were doing there in the first place. Pete moves the hand to kiss Patrick hard and dirty, then cants Patrick’s hips up to redouble his efforts.

Everything is familiar about the tight muscles of Patrick’s thighs like a vice around him, the salty taste of sweat from sucking at Patrick’s neck, the hitches of Patrick’s breath when he reaches for his cock, both of them creeping closer to climax. Patrick’s eyes open at last, pupils swallowing his irises as they lock eyes.

“Come on, baby, come for me,” he breathes, reaching out to take Pete’s face in both hands. “Fuck, come on.”

The blunt tips of Patrick’s nails dig into his jaw slightly, and he comes hard. He’s still buried deep in Patrick when he comes down from his orgasm. He watches his face blankly for a moment before he regains the brain processes to lace Patrick’s fingers with his own, bringing him off together. Patrick barely suppresses a cry when he comes.

It takes a while for their breaths to even out, and even longer for Pete to gain the nerves to smirk up at Patrick. “So that could have gone better.”

Patrick groans and throws an arm over his eyes. “I hate you.”

“You kind of suck at being quiet,” Pete prods. “I mean, your mom is _right there._ ”

“You’re the worst,” Patrick says without malice.

“But hey,” Pete barrels on cheerily, “she watched the show, so it’s not like she doesn’t know we have sex, right?”

“I’m going to punch you in the dick if you don’t shut up immediately.”

Pete laughs and wiggles close to lick Patrick’s earlobe. “You love me and my dick too much.”

Patrick shoves Pete, rolling them over with little effort, although he nearly rolls them off the bed. “You’re lucky I do,” he says, shoving Pete’s shoulders down into the bed. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re gonna shut up and go to sleep.”

“You’re so bossy,” Pete jibes, but a yawn betrays him.

Lying back down beside him, Patrick pulls Pete close, their noses brushing. “Goodnight, asshole.”

“Goodnight.”

For the first time since his first step out of the studio doors, he drops off to sleep right away. And when Patrick wears his hickies proudly over breakfast the next morning, Pete knows, despite everything, this exactly where he's meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the wait guys! This is probably the last you've seen of this 'verse, sadly, but I had a ton of fun writing in it and it's definitely my baby. Please don't all hate me when the World of Warcraft fanfic starts flooding this account. /o\ I love you all!


End file.
